


The Day of the Butter Dish

by HeartOfTheMirror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Drugs, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, cursing, they're not recreational though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 22:17:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartOfTheMirror/pseuds/HeartOfTheMirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes from a slow day in the life Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day of the Butter Dish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thebelovedpariah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebelovedpariah/gifts).



> A winterlockexchange gift for thebelovedpariah, who asked for fluff with a side of naughty. Hope you like dear :3

There’s something about waking up in warm cotton sheets. Especially when they’re just a little too warm because there’s a body draped unapologetically half-suffocating yours, when the crisp smell of laundry detergent is softened by the musky smell of them, that one unique blend of pheromones that makes your brain light up like a Christmas tree. Piled under a soft blanket and a comfortable old duvet, John Watson is in fucking heaven. 

One of his legs is cold up to the shin because Sherlock Holmes is a selfish blanket hogging berk and that very thought makes John smile so widely he thinks he might pull a muscle. He knows it’s a bit irrational to feel this way over something so small, so inconvenient, but it’s something unique to Sherlock and drugged up as he is on oxytocin and blessedly free from all seeing eyes, anything unique to Sherlock is automatically to be treasured. The man himself snuffles into his lover’s chest a little, like even through the thick shroud of sleep he can sense John’s joy and doesn't approve of such a thing at such an hour. 

John has been trained by years and years of on-call work to operate on short bouts of sleep which were typically broken abruptly at the crack of dawn, so he slept lightly and rarely past daybreak. Sherlock, on the other hand, had a binge and purge attitude toward cerebral relaxation which John has slowly been attempting to sand away into something more reasonable without nannying him overmuch. Of course, Sherlock still slept so little that when he did commit himself to a few hours of unconsciousness he was nearly impossible to wake for anything short of a triple homicide or a blowjob.

The one upside to their contradictory sleep habits was that John typically got at least a couple hours a day (on the days when he could convince Sherlock to actually sleep) to simply lay with his lover in his arms and observe him- feast his eyes on the impossibility, the otherworldly beauty, the sheer fucking splendor, of the man he loved. 

The light was soft, roseate and still dawning in that distant world past the curtains. It softened Sherlock’s sharp features just as much as the slack tide of sleep. John couldn’t help but press his lips just softly to his forehead. It wouldn't be long before his walking whirlwind was up and about, pissing off ordinary wankers and generally being brilliant. Now, the eye of the storm, was for basking. 

...

“What the bloody hell do you mean, there’s cocaine in the butter dish you sodding bastard! We talked about this!” John had that look on his face. The annoying one, with the flat eyebrows. 

“It’s not recreational.” Sherlock rolled his eyes behind his goggles. Tedious to have to vocalize something which should be obvious, even to someone as unobservant as John. 

“What the sodding bollocking hell did I say, you utter twat?” Still the eyebrows. Tedious. dull. He didn’t want the John with the flat eyebrows and the flared nostrils, and the cursing- well no actually, the cursing he could work with. Images of John beneath him, mouth open and panting damply, eyes clamped shut as a stream of praise and cursing and best of all that needy begging, rolling off his talented pink little tongue. The slide, the slick heat of his John laid out on the couch- no the rug, with the afghan from the back of his chair spread out beneath him to keep the rug from rubbing against his back and making him cranky for the rest of the day. 

Sherlock hummed low in his throat. Such lovely thoughts, such lovely ideas his “massive” brain could come up with for his fit little John’s compact body. Somewhere in the background John was prattling on about “danger nights” and “idiots” and “subconscious temptation”. 

“You’re right.” That made him stop talking. Good. 

“What?” John asked, in that tone that told Sherlock he was waiting for the other foot to drop. Clever man.

“You’re right John. I am tempted. But not by cocaine, no, my temptations are a bit more,” Sherlock let his eyes drag slowly over John’s bare toes up his tight jeans, his warm jumper, the quick tongue darting out over his thin, inviting lips, “diminutive.” 

“I’ll show you diminutive, you right arse. The second you flush that fucking cocaine butter.” John took the butter dish from the counter and slammed it down on the table next to Sherlock’s microscope, dangerously upsetting the moderately stable chemical compound his flatmate was working on. “No sex until the flat is free of narcotics,” John said in his Captain Watson voice, his I-refuse-to-budge-voice. He took his tea in one hand, his toast and beans in the other, and marched up the stairs to his old room, which he primarily used for escaping Sherlock when he was being irritating (and for guests on the rare occasion they hosted). 

Sherlock watched him leave, pouting. On one hand he had the pleasure of watching John walking up the stairs, but on the other, “Damn.” Foiled again by another of John’s inexplicable temper tantrums.

...

“Your knee is in my ribs you pile of bones.” Sherlock hmmped, moving to purposely jab his knee harder in John’s side. “Oi!” John complained, elbowing Sherlock awkwardly in the bicep. Sherlock just pouted harder, wrapping his other hand around his friend’s waist and drawing him back so his spine was pressed against Sherlock’s chest. “Knock it off.” John pushed away, not moving from the dramatic v of Sherlock’s legs but sitting ramrod straight rather than relaxing against his lover. 

“You said no sex,” Sherlock moaned, throwing his head back against the union jack cushion on the arm of the couch, “cuddling on the couch is supposed to be okay. You said so. Even when you’re angry you said cuddling on the couch would be okay.” There was even a bond film on. Unfair. 

“It’s not about that. I need to finish this.” He was still pecking away at the blog. Usually this sort of thing made Sherlock happy, he could snipe at John’s lackluster grammar and waxy romanticism, but now he wanted a cuddle and he couldn’t have a cuddle apparently, for reasons which were, quite frankly bullshit. Sherlock could see the blog being important to John when his brilliance was otherwise occupied was otherwise occupied, but there was no need to bother himself with it when the detective himself was on offer. 

He drew his legs in so they were no longer bracketing John, so his body was curled tightly in on itself, shifted to his face was pressed into the back of the sofa blocking out the hateful world and all it’s insipid noise and rot.

“Oh, hey now,” John said, a hint of genuine worry coloring his voice. Good.

John’s warm hand wrapped around Sherlock’s ankle, thumb rubbing gentle circles over the protruding bone there.

“I gave the butter dish to Molly,” Sherlock mumbled into the couch cushion. 

“When was Molly over?” John asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. 

“When you were upstairs sulking,” Sherlock said, turning his head just enough to peak at John out of the corner of one narrowed cat-like eye. John snorted, his That’s Rich Sherlock, face in full effect.The laptop had been set on the floor and John’s attention was where it should be- focused on Sherlock. His hand slipped up over Sherlock’s calf, fingers gently massaging muscle, encouraging the limb to relax and straighten, covering John’s lap. His other hand rested on Sherlock’s hip, tantalizingly close to his groin. 

“Tell me what the experiment was for,” John prompted, voice soft, intimate. 

“Charles Carlton case,” Sherlock blurted, pressing his hips forward into John’s touch. John shoved playfully rough, rolling Sherlock onto his back and precariously close to the edge of the sofa. John kept a firm hold on Sherlock’s leg. 

“Tell me about it, stud,” John said, with that little twist to his mouth which meant he was making a slightly self deprecating reference which Sherlock would not understand.

“Drug runner, smuggling cocaine into the country in the guise of an exotic foods import business. Killed three teenagers and a middle aged accountant with some shoddy chemistry. Tainted.” John slid his hand up to Sherlock’s thigh, taking the other one in a parallel grip and spreading Sherlock’s legs so he could shift until he was on his knees between them. He began slowly undoing Sherlock’s buttons as he spoke.

“Lestrade’s colleague in narcotics has been after Carlton for years, called in a few favors with Lestrade to get me on the case. Barely a five but- ohhh,” John’s fingers trailed over the newly bared skin of his chest, stopping to tweak a nipple playfully. Sherlock’s breath hitched, his lips parting, his pupils widening with obvious arousal. John leaned down to press a dirty kiss to Sherlock’s belly button as the man beneath him writhed with impatient pleasure. His fingers ghosted over Sherlock’s belt buckle, his zip, just barely any pressure. It drove Sherlock wild, a keening noise escaping him as his fingers dug into John’s shoulder and the back of the couch with a desperate painful grip, as if that was the only thing which could keep him from flying off into the void of space. 

“I think you deserve a little positive reinforcement,” John whispered against Sherlock’s damp sensitized skin. Sherlock whined high in his throat. “Just as soon as you dig the butter dish out of the hat box in the closet and get rid of it,” John said with a self-satisfied little grin.

“Damn!” Sherlock screamed in frustration, throwing his head back and covering his eyes with one dramatic arm. 

“Butter dish, Sherlock,” John prompted, punctuating his gentle order by pressing his hips suggestively against Sherlock. 

Sherlock threw himself bodily from the couch, nearly kneeing his lover in the chin, looking disheveled and lovely. “When I get back you had better be naked,” he said and then disappeared through the door to their room. John grinned and waited until he actually saw the mad genius throw the thing in the trash before he unbuttoned his trousers.


End file.
